


But Now Am Found

by Rubynye



Category: Original Work
Genre: Clothed Sex, F/M, Implied/Referenced Underage, Mission requires being raped, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape and Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19377496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: He always did think himself more clever than he is, which is why this plan will work.





	But Now Am Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bironic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bironic/gifts).



> The splendid Nonconathon provides opportunities to write all manner of stories. My dear Bironic, I hope you enjoy this!

Acacia allows Baron Makrinell to find her on the outskirts of town. She waits, standing in artificial calm, fiddling absently with a little red ribbon, looking across the rolling hill country towards the setting Sun. She hears him coming near a league off, it seems, her belly curdling sourer and sourer inside her as she holds her false smile, studying the green beautiful hills, letting his tromping footsteps bear him to her while he thinks he's creeping up like a cat.

He always did think himself more clever than he is, which is why this plan will work.

A noisy inhale, the steel-on-leather hiss of a blade being drawn, and Acacia turns on her heel like she's the least bit surprised, letting her face fall into true dismay. Makrinell looms over her, pressing the flat of his belt-knife to the edge of her jaw, grinning down at her just how she remembers from an hundred horrible nights, and her knees tremble beneath her skirts. But she lifts her chin, pressing her mouth shut, facing him as bravely as she might as he rumbles, "Found'ya, runaway."

"I'm a slave no more," is what she says, lying with the truth, and all he does is seize her shoulder in his wide rough hand, as she knew he would, all he does is press the blade against her cheek till he pushes her head sideways. But she still gasps out, "Unhand me, Ser," knowing he'll do no such thing.

"That any way to address your Master, girl?" He tilts the knife just enough for her to feel its edge.

“No man is my Master,” she retorts, shivering between the blade and his hand with thwarted motion and billowing fear, keeping her chin up in honor of the fallen. “Good Queen Tamarla freed every slave.”

“And the Gods’ warrior struck her down.” He tugs her closer, nearly lifting her off her feet so she stumbles towards him. He was always so damn strong. Acacia’s eyes burn with the longing to shut him out, her skin crawls in his grip. She has to endure. 

She will. “Your foolish assassin set our Merelda the Magnificent on the throne, who has sworn to punish— ah!” As he hits her across the mouth with the heel of his fist, thus removing the knife from her face. “Punish any —“ He hits her again from the other side, and as she tastes blood she forces her eyes up to watch his brows crashing together, his mouth downturning into a snarl. “Any who try to reinstate bondage,” she finishes despite his bellow of “Stop!”.

“Shut up,” he insists, crushing her to his side, tucking the blade beneath her chin so its point pricks her pulse, and despite her resolve her body shuts her mouth for her. “Shut _up,_ Acacia. The Gods shall soon restore the natural order, They’ve begun by giving you back to me. Come on, and be quiet.”

He drags her with him towards an ox-wagon some several dozen paces away, his fingers rough with rage, so Acacia saves her strength and concentrates on not tripping lest he slit her throat on accident. She’s never believed the Gods were on the slavers’ side, and hopes now They’re on hers, as she drops the twist of ribbon for her friends to find and lets her former master think for the moment he’s reclaimed her.

* * *

Acacia wishes Mimosa could see what their old master’s been reduced to, a creaking shack he wouldn’t’ve housed his slaves in, the window covered with a nailed-up pillowcase and the breeze whisking between the gapping planks of the walls. The sad squalor of this little rough room is her consolation as he shoves her onto his straw-stuffed mattress, too thin to cushion her facedown fall. 

The wind knocked out of her, wrists bound behind her back, Acacia lies stunned for a moment, thinking of nothing but turning to find the air, and so allows Makrinell’s touch on her arm to startle a whimper out of her. He laughs a little, nastily as ever, rolling her like a doll back to facedown, and she knew this was coming, she struggles to hold to herself against the surge of nauseous fear. She can get through this. And her “No, don’t touch me,” is helpfully true.

She still can’t keep from kicking him, unfortunately hitting somewhere solid and impervious. 

He just laughs again, gripping her hips as she struggles, pushing up her skirts. “Yes,” he answers all her ,”No”s, and draws in a great breath, sighing, “You even smell the same.”

Acacia considers _You smell worse_ and pushes it by. She’s not a child anymore. She just gets her knees beneath her and tries to shove herself up the mattress, knowing it’s futile, knowing every moment she holds his attention is to advantage, knowing beneath and bigger than all that she doesn’t want him to tup her, she doesn’t, she doesn’t ever again. Laughing all the more, he curls his hands round her thighs and hauls her back to him, grips her petticoat and rips it open down the back, and she lets herself shriek, “ai, stop! Cloth’s dear!”

He just smacks her bared bottom and she hitches forward with another true cry of dismay. She doesn’t want this, she never wanted him, she could tell him the truth — and even that wouldn’t stop him, and she has far better loyalties now, she put herself in his hands for a reason, she bites her lip and reaffirms her grip on herself. “I’ll give you all the clothes you need,” he rumbles as he strips her petticoat down her thighs, that familiar lustful rumble sending shudders down her spine, “as soon as we escape this accursed nation. Now relax, little Acacia,” he croons, just as he did when he deflowered her, and she wants to retch against the memory. “Just relax. You have no need to worry on anything. I have you back and I’ll care for you as long as you obey me.” 

“No,” Acacia whimpers, “No, _please_ ,” the word bitter in her mouth, “ _Ser,_ ”, and his laugh booms louder than ever. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“But you’re mine,” is all he says, all she knew he’d say, as he sweeps his blunt prick up and down between her petals and presses against her entrance, and she bites her lip harder, twisting her hands, unable to stay still for it and unable to escape as he pushes into her for the first time in two and a half years. “Yes, mine,” he groans, shoving within her on a burning stretch, sinking into her as if he owns her. 

He doesn’t own her. She’s learned he never owned her, he couldn’t, she’s a person, not a thing. She presses her aching cheek to the crackling bag of straw, her eyes so tightly shut she sees red lights, and lets herself make all the wounded noises of her body’s pain as he growls his pleasure and rides her at a hard gallop. She’s not his and he only caught her because she let him. She survived his brutal delight before when she was so much younger and with only Mimosa to comfort her. She can get through this, she reminds herself over and over as she twists her wrists against each other, as his massive thighs batter hers and all the noisome familiarity of him invades her thrust by thrust. She can, she can, and then she never will have to again. In Mimosa’s honor, in service of justice.

So Acacia reminds herself, even as her throat closes on a sob and she starts to cry.

Her former master doesn’t even notice, but if he did her pain would but excite him as it ever did. Denting her thighs with his gripping hands, slamming into her so her whole body shudders outside and in, he bellows happily as he spills inside her, and she swallows hard against nausea and hopes the potion works. An hundred nights and she never caught by him, she would not now, absolutely not. Especially after what befell Mimosa. Blowing and panting he drags himself free of her and slaps her bottom again, and she lets herself sink down over her drawn-up knees, presses her face into the poky mattress and lets herself cry.

He sets his hand on her back and she shudders beneath its spread, his voice oozing rancid kindness as he murmurs, “Oh, don’t take on so, my dear. You were braver than this the first time I plucked you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Acacia coughs up, and sobs, “wouldn’t’ve thought,” as tears stream across her face and stuff her nose, “you’d remember it.”

“Ever mouthy,” he laughs, smoothing her skirt over her thighs, tender now that he’s broken her open, or thinks he has. “How could I forget bringing my favorite chattels to womanhood? I still savor every moment of your first night in my bed, and your sister’s as well.”

“Don’t,” Acacia groans against the mattress. “Don’t speak of Mimosa.” Is she lying? Is it truth? She hardly even knows as she shivers beneath his hand, his seed greasing her thighs, her bound hands tingling and aching against the small of her back. 

No, she needs to know. She must keep her head, she reminds herself even as she quivers, swallowing hard against nausea once more. She feels so weak, torn open and bound and battered and in her former master’s hands, but she’s strong. She knew she was strong when she proposed this plan. She can do this.

“Don’t you miss her?” He asks jovially. “I remember you two, pretty as peonies, always together. I should have brought you both to my bed one night, double the joy.” 

_We should have killed you,_ Acacia thinks, beneath his heavy hand, and gives up another gobbet of herself, saying, “I miss her. I’ve missed her since you killed her.”

He growls in anger now, gripping her hair and shaking her. “Mind your manners, little bauble,” and she coughs dizzily and reflects that even now she still wants to live. Besides, that’s all he can say when he knows she speaks truth. Mimosa brought in the news of the decree of their freedom, but she was too heavy with child to evade Makrinell in his fury, and he caught her by the throat and killed her.

So Acacia sets her mouth tight and doesn’t give him the whimpers nor apology he wants, and soon enough he lets go again. “I wish I could trust you,” he says mournfully, and her belly twists between trained guilt and true disgust. “Untie those pretty hands, let you about this cabin. But you’re still so mouthy, so full of mutiny. I’ll have a time re-training you, I will.”

Acacia considers, _Or you could let me go,_ but sets it by as a little much for the moment. She just rubs her wet face against the mattress bag’s rough weave, and listens to him get up, listens to him laugh again.

“What a woman you’ve grown to be,” he says over her as she hears him do his trousers up. “The silent treatment and all. Marvelous.” Warmth and chill stream countercurrent beneath her skin, learned pride at pleasing him, disgust that she learned so well. This is even more difficult than she’d thought it would be.

But she can do it, Acacia reminds herself. She must, and she will. She listens as he lifts the dipper from his water-pail and drinks and sighs satisfaction; he doesn’t think to offer her any, of course, but she aches between her thighs and behind her eyes, and though she knows she should draw and hold his attention she can’t bear whatever price he’ll exact from her for the water. So she just rolls to her back, tucking her arms into an easier position beneath her.

The movement makes her pendant glint, as intended. He lifts an eyebrow, drops the dipper with a splash and crosses the room again, sitting by her, scooping her up in one arm as he lifts her pendant with the other hand. “What’s this?”

“It’s mine,” Acacia answers as truculently as she can, and he pinches her upper arm, examining the pendant with narrowed eyes. Just as planned.

“You have nothing that’s not mine,” he answers. “This looks to be a betrothal necklace.”

“So it is.” Acacia is ready when he turns his glare towards her, glaring back, ignoring the squirm of learned dread in the face of his anger. 

“Ho, then!” He pulls it off over her head, yanking the chain free from her hair. “So you’ve been busy in your absence! Did you tell this upstart your price from me?” He flings it against the wall where it smashes, and Acacia bites her cheek against smiling as she keeps her gaze on his angry face, keeping him from noticing the glow as it rises from the broken pendant and whisks out through the window. He has no idea how much closer he’s brought himself to destruction. But she can’t show it yet, and she reminds herself now of how sore she is, how much she doesn’t want to be draped like a shawl across his lap, how much she hates and has always hated him. She reminds herself and drops her mouth open in feigned shock, then frowns in honest fury. 

“He’ll find me,” she insists to him, “and ransom me from you without a groat,” and would have said more but that’s when he tosses her down upon the mattress again, face florid, thick fingers clawing at her bodice.

“You’ll shut your mouth,” he snarls, “and in the morning we’ll leave this place, and I’ll have you again first be—!”

His eyes bulging is the first she sees, and then the crossbow bolt pinning his ear flat to his skull, its point protruding above his far eye, as both turn towards her, as he tips over and falls down, down, down. “For Mimosa,” Acacia says, from the bottom of her aching heart; he grabs at her skirt and she gasps as she wriggles and kicks away from him, as everything in her tightens towards triumph and weeping, as she watches her master Baron Makrinell’s eyes glaze and fix as he dies.

Three solid bangs and the door falls in, her friends pouring in, tears pouring down her cheeks. Zimaj strides behind all, ducking his tall head through the doorway, his crossbow in his hand. Through wavering sight, between her bustling friends, she sees him catch up the chain from the floor, and she can’t help smiling, even as she weeps. 

They untie her hands, smooth her hair, wipe her face and step back, letting Zimaj come to her. “Acacia?” he asks, holding out his hands, one empty, one full of steel crossbow and silver chain, and she nods as she lays hers in his. “Are you—?”

“I’m free,” she tells her betrothed, her friends, her sister’s avenged spirit. “Finally, beloved. I’m free.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Former Master noncons Former Slave", for the Nonconathon 2019 challenge.


End file.
